


Attendant

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Blood and Injury, Forehead Kisses, Inline with canon, M/M, No Plot/Plotless
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:47:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25088662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "Knuckle didn’t even know he could pick Shoot up, much less run at full speed while carrying him; but it turns out that fleeing for both their lives is motivation enough to pump his legs and strain his arms to fling them forward with only minimal consideration for the actual physical restrictions that ought, reasonably, to be in place." Knuckle makes the most of the few seconds he has with Shoot between fighting for the things that really matter.
Relationships: Knuckle Bine/Shoot McMahon
Comments: 6
Kudos: 79





	Attendant

Knuckle can’t get his heart to stop racing.

All things considered, he can hardly fault it for its breakneck pace. He’s been sprinting all-out for the last minutes, running with the kind of flailing pace that would put him at risk of tripping and falling over his own feet if he weren’t already moving forward more rapidly than even falling could do, and doing it with the additional burden of an entire second person braced under his arm. Knuckle didn’t even know he could pick Shoot up, much less run at full speed while carrying him; but it turns out that fleeing for both their lives is motivation enough to pump his legs and strain his arms to fling them forward with only minimal consideration for the actual physical restrictions that ought, reasonably, to be in place.

_ He doesn’t weigh enough_, some part of Knuckle’s mind offers as he clears a corner in a skidding arc before the soles of his shoes find traction again and he can once more propel himself forward.  _ He’s gotta have at least, what, three, four centimeters on me? I know he’s skinny but even down an arm he ought to be heavier than this. _ Knuckle frowns as he tears down the hallway, working through the long division of weight by height in his head. It’s only when he flexes his free arm to try to estimate its mass relative to the rest of his body that he realizes what he’s doing.

_ Ah_, he thinks.  _ I’m panicking_. There’s a frantic edge to his thoughts, as if he might be able to answer the real question—how long he needs to hold out against the Royal Guard—by calculating how much of a calorie deficit Shoot must be running based on his build and height and typical physical exertion. Knuckle blinks hard, forcing himself to return to the present moment: sprinting down an empty hallway, Shoot’s blood tacky and hot against his side; and ahead of them, the archway leading out into the as-yet-empty courtyard.

Knuckle slows as they approach the exit, easing his pace so he can soften the sound of his footsteps echoing against the tiled floor. Shoot is heavy in his hold; any attempt he might have been making towards supporting his own weight is fully absent now. His arm around Knuckle’s shoulders is slack with its own weight; if Knuckle didn’t have his hand closed to a cuff around Shoot’s wrist it would have long since fallen heavy across his back. Shoot’s undone hair is falling forward around his face, curtaining any hope Knuckle might have of glimpsing proof of consciousness in his features, but the sound of his breathing is reassurance of his continuing survival, even if the rasping noise of it is enough to run a chill of panic straight down Knuckle’s spine.

“It’s gonna be alright,” he says, not sure if Shoot can hear him but grateful for the sound of his own voice anyway. He tightens his hold on Shoot’s wrist and pulls to urge the other a little closer against him by the arm he has wrapped around his narrow waist. “Just hold on a little longer for me, Shoot.”

If there is a response Knuckle doesn’t wait for one. His legs are shaking now that he has slowed, and he’s not sure how to force them back into motion if he admits to himself how exhausted he is, how terrified, how full of desperate, life-or-death adrenaline. He moves forward instead, taking them out of the shadows of the palace hallway and through the archway to where tall stone pillars mark the distinction between palace and open courtyard.

Knuckle aims for one such. His desire for confrontation urges him towards the courtyard, tells himself to make a frame of the archway and place himself as the subject within it; but his hands are busy supporting Shoot, and he can’t leave the other slumped at his feet and in the line of fire Shoot has no means of dodging in his present situation. Knuckle will need to leave him behind, at least for the time it takes to land the blows he promised Shoot, promised himself, he would; and so Knuckle makes for the shadows, half-hidden in the darkness and at a distance he calculates should be well clear of even an absurd amount of collateral damage, and he turns in and drops to a knee so he can lower Shoot as gently as he can against the support of the wall behind him.

He looks bad. Knuckle knew Shoot was hurt; knew he was dying, even, with a certainty strong enough to shatter all his intentions to stick to the plan when that plan demanded he stand by and watch his fellow student die in front of him. But his moment of action had provided some measure of relief for the sick horror building in Knuckle’s stomach, and the subsequent flight and determination had taken the adrenaline in him and turned it from fear to thrilling, reckless pursuit. It was easy to focus on movement, on crossing the distance from one point to another without really thinking about details like the ache in his legs, or the pull in his shoulder, or the weight of Shoot going more and more slack in his arms.

Knuckle can’t ignore it now. Shoot falls where Knuckle drops him, collapsing with the same bonelessness he showed inside when Knuckle gave up his grip on the other in a moment of shock; but this time he offers no grunt of pain at the drop, and his head falls forward as if the weight of his undone hair is more than he can bear alone. His clothes are in tatters around him, shredded along his legs and torn loose of his shoulder, and he’s bleeding from too many wounds to trace, until Knuckle sees more smeared red than the pallor of Shoot’s bare skin. Knuckle reaches out instinctively for one of the worst, a long stripe of an injury that sweeps over Shoot’s ribs and veers up across his chest, but his hand isn’t enough to cover the wound, and he realizes he has no bandages better than the clothing already soaked through with Shoot’s blood. Knuckle hesitates, one hand against Shoot’s chest and the other hovering near the other’s waist to offer the support he clearly needs just to stay upright, and from under the shadow of tumbled hair there is the sound of a rasping breath dragged into struggling lungs.

“Go.” Shoot’s voice is rough with an effort that Knuckle can see fixed in the line of his shoulders, and even then it is hardly more than a whisper, but Knuckle is too close and too attentive to possibly miss it. Shoot pauses for a moment, gathering his breath or maybe just his strength to turn to the effort of speech. “You—your promise.”

Knuckle’s hand finishes out the movement to land at Shoot’s waist, his fingers tightening to a grip against the ragged edges of the other’s torn clothes. He presses his lips tight, draws a deep breath through his nose, and then lets the full force of it out into a determined exhale. “Yeah,” he says. “I’ll keep it, Shoot. Don’t worry about that.” Shoot breathes out a tiny huff of agreement, or maybe laughter, or maybe pain. Knuckle lets go of the pressure he’s urging against Shoot’s chest as a lost cause and reaches to push back at the weight of the other’s hair so he can move it clear of Shoot’s face. “And then I’ll get you some help, you got it? I’ll land two good ones on that guy and then I’ll be right back. You just need to hold on until then.”

Shoot’s head dips forward. Knuckle would like to believe it’s a nod, that there is some measure of intention in the gesture, but he can see the tendons of Shoot’s neck cording with strain, can see the everpresent crease between the other’s eyebrows grooved deep and shadowed with pain. Knuckle didn’t realize that he knew Shoot’s face well enough to distinguish anything from the anxious tension that the other carries at the corners of his mouth and the creases at his eyes, but now he can see the agony drawn in stark lines across the familiarity of the other’s features even as Shoot sets his jaw and presses his lips together to muffle the rasp of his breathing. His hand is draped heavy in his lap, there’s no trace of the hazy green of his Nen; under the streaks of blood and fast-rising bruises his skin is stark with blood loss and his clear gaze is struggling with focus.

Knuckle deals in surrenders when he can, offers mercy whenever he has it to give, but he’s seen enough mortal injuries to recognize that Shoot’s life is draining away on the order of minutes, at best. They are running out of time, the both of them running on precious seconds instead of the casual years that Knuckle has always assumed they had, and Knuckle’s heart is aching with it, pounding with the same speed that brought his priorities into such crystalline focus in the entrance hall. He made his decision there, in the space of a few calculations that weighed the fate of the world against the life of a man and came to a single, inescapable conclusion; and he finds the result waiting for him now, still as absolute against the backdrop of the present moment as it was when he flung himself free of Meleoron’s protection to claim the attention of the Royal Guard.

Shoot doesn’t resist when Knuckle’s hands find either side of his face. He’s fighting for every breath, he doesn’t have the strength to turn away from Knuckle’s palms cradling the stark lines of his jaw and cheekbone; but his lashes flutter as Knuckle tips his head up, his gaze flickering from inward-facing pain to a moment of curiosity. Knuckle looks into Shoot’s face, bruised and bloody and impossibly beautiful, and then he leans forward in a single rushed movement that ends with his mouth pressing gently to the middle of Shoot’s forehead.

They only have seconds. There is no time to linger, no time for this indulgence; and no time to do anything else, not when Knuckle’s heart is pounding with such clear focus and Shoot is struggling to hold himself to consciousness. Knuckle’s lips brush Shoot’s forehead, his mouth shaping all the things he doesn’t have time to say against Shoot’s skin; and then he draws back, his breath catching and heart racing and hands still certain against Shoot’s face.

“You stay alive,” he says. “Hold on for another minute while I hit this guy and then I’ll be back and we’ll get out of here.” His hands are shifting, his thumbs stroking across Shoot’s skin in what is undeniably a caress, but Knuckle doesn’t know how to stop them and, more immediately, doesn’t have any desire to. “You got me, Shoot?”

Shoot doesn’t answer aloud. His breathing is a struggle, Knuckle can’t imagine he has the strength to spare for speech; but framed between Knuckle’s hands the tight line of his mouth moves, flickering away from his habitual frown for a moment. It’s enough; or it has to be, anyway, and in the moment that’s the same thing. Knuckle tightens his hold on Shoot’s face, and leans in to bump his forehead gently against the other’s; and then he lets Shoot go, freeing his hold as he surges to his feet and comes forward to turn his attention on the fight to come. Shoot slumps forward again, his head bowing under its own weight and his hands slack and heavy in his lap, and Knuckle looks away and out at the courtyard, seeking the enemy that still remains for him to fight.

His heart is still racing, his thoughts still rushing. He wants to live, wants to survive long enough to see tomorrow, to make it to a future he has only just realized he wanted at all. But there is a fight before him, a promise trembling in the adrenaline coursing through him, and first of all, Knuckle has something he has to do for the man he loves.


End file.
